


In Everything We Loved

by stardropdream



Series: Can Nothing Change [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Study, Episode Related, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a quivering in his stomach, a curling, roiling mess of hope and distress – that they should have broken his wish and come to get him before he even had a chance to prove himself capable of dedication, capable of devotion, capable of doing what was best for everyone he loves.  It is not sacrifice.  It is not hardship.   This is what Aramis tells himself when they come to get him. (Coda fic for 2x10)</p><p>(While part of a series, this fic can stand alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Everything We Loved

**Author's Note:**

> So forever ago I wrote [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3766282) and got requests to write the same story from Aramis' POV. So, four months later, here it is! I tried to have it follow the same trajectory as the first one, although I'd love to revisit this idea later for something a little more deeply felt (since that last scene comes after a jump of a few months). 
> 
> Anyway, continuing with the trending idea of "Aramis doesn't immediately jump back to the musketeers after they go get him". We'll see how much of an AU this fic becomes come next season, haha. :>

He leaves his gun, his uniform, his sword upon the captain’s desk. His hand lingers but he doesn’t let himself linger for long. Crossing the streets of Paris at dusk, exhausted and sore from the entire ordeal, he fights back against memories that niggle at the back of his mind – desperate to be felt, desperate to be remembered. He cannot afford it. They are not his to cherish any more. He tells himself this, crossing underneath the last gate to Paris, the open road before him, the nightly breeze stirring the trees that line the road. He tells himself, he must let it all go. That, in the end, is for the better. He can summon such tranquility. He can stomach such ambition. 

He passes by many people on the road to Douai. Hard-working men with harder-worked hands, tillers of fields and the like. Young mothers leading their children – and Aramis ignores against the pang against his chest, empty where a rosary’s gift once hung. New couples walking side-by-side. Life, thriving around them. There is joy in that, certainly, even if it cannot be Aramis’ ever again. 

If asked, Aramis would not be able to say how many days pass between his departure from Paris and his arrival to the monastery of Douai. Later, d’Artagnan will tell him it wasn’t even a week and yet in Aramis’ mind the days all blur together and grow too thin. He doesn’t know how many days it’s been when he’s being summoned to the courtyard by his Father. 

When he steps out into the bright mid-day sun, it is a strange burst of relief he feels when he finds d’Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos standing there, his three brothers there waiting for him, horses at a ready. It is relief, and then shame. Shame that he should feel so elated at seeing them, when he hadn’t even lasted a week as a monk – was it a week? Perhaps more, perhaps less. The fact remains that his heart should not burst at the sight of them. There is a quivering in his stomach, a curling, roiling mess of hope and distress – that they should have broken his wish and come to get him before he even had a chance to prove himself capable of dedication, capable of devotion, capable of doing what was best for everyone he loves. It is not sacrifice. It is not hardship. These things are not what’s brought him to God’s side – and yet how quickly Aramis’ heart quivers with the thought of turning from that promise. What kind of man does such a thing, he can’t help but wonder in despair. 

They tell him of what’s to come – the war against Spain, the regiment riding out to the south, Athos as captain. There is a faint little joy he feels at those words, looks over at Athos, and then d’Artagnan in turn. He looks at Porthos but Porthos is not looking at him, that smile he saw when he came in through the archway to the courtyard, bright and _hopeful_ , gone now and replaced with something thin and dampened. Now something more muted, Porthos looks around the monastery of Douai – drinking it in, as if memorizing it, as if trying to place Aramis there as belonging. He should, perhaps, feel anger at the look in Porthos’ eye. But how could he be angry with him – how could he be anything but happy to see him, even if he does not deserve that feeling? 

(He remembers this: saying goodbye upon that lane of trees. Porthos looked at him – only at him, that look of undone and broken devastating. Porthos had to look away as he stepped into his space, his hug tight but his expression bird-fragile and raw. So rarely did Porthos look away from him. So many times over the years he’d look up and find Porthos honed in on him, and there was always comfort in that. 

He remembers this: walking away down the long road from the palace and fighting that urge to turn around, to reassure himself that they were watching his back, always watching out for him – wanting that, even then, even if it was selfish.

He remembers this: the way Porthos looked at him as he approached him and hugged him, chin upon his shoulder. The look Porthos gave him when they drew away. Wanting to reach out to hold him one last time.) 

He cannot ignore war. 

And he hates, perhaps, the small, betraying part of him that seizes this opportunity and does not look back. The first day in the monastery, he felt at peace and sure. The second night, he’d cried more than he had over the course of his entire life – unhinged and shaking out of him. The last time he’d cried like that, it’d been that night in the nunnery, after the last time he’d ever hold Isabelle in his arms – the first night he’d ever hold the queen, and likely the last. The first and the last. His longing coils up in his chest even now. Perhaps he will see them before he goes to war. Perhaps he will not. The hope, though, flickers up inside of him. 

But the shame follows soon after. His hands twist up at his sides – and it is not the way he’d hoped it’d be. It did not come as easily, as happily as it should have. He feels no joy in being under the watchful eye of God. Instead, he feels lonely. 

It was his choice. He should try harder. 

“I will return as soon as I’m able,” Aramis tells the father, with more surety than he truly feels. He doesn’t meet the musketeers’ eyes. Musketeers, not his brothers. They cannot be his brothers. 

He wonders if Porthos is looking at him. He wonders what he sees.

 

-

 

It’s a day’s ride still from Paris and already Aramis feels that warm glow of memory hinging at the edges of his vision – how many nights were spent like this, huddled around a fire, trading stories and ideas. The fire crackles and sizzles at his feet, warming him from the outside in. Athos is quiet, as he often is, but the light catches the occasional smile as d’Artagnan needles at Aramis, elbow to rib, describing Constance’s wedding dress in a surprising amount of detail. 

It is a melancholy ache he feels. A regret, perhaps, that he should have missed it – and yet knowing he has no right to miss this feeling. He has no right to wish for it. The air around them threatens rain, the smoke from the campfire floating up and wisping away. The trees rustle with breeze, and the fire flickers. The fire pops and d’Artagnan pulls back the food he was slow-roasting there before handing Aramis his own share. It smells of wood and smoke, charred at the edges. 

Porthos sits across from him, eyes to the fire. He hasn’t looked at him all evening and Aramis can’t help it – he looks at him, hones in on him, drinks in every feature, every line of his face. He still looks the same as he did a week ago, weeks ago. He still looks just the same. The only thing different is the sword at his side, hooked into his belt. His belt, wrapped up around a blue sash he hasn’t removed even now. It squeezes in his chest. He says nothing about it and Porthos offers no explanation. They’ve exchanged all of two words, though. The words do not pass easily like they once had – and Aramis tells himself it is for the better, that being distant will make it easier to return to the monastery when the time comes. 

Aramis is still dressed as a monk. He’ll need to get his uniform for war from the captain – no, from Athos, Athos is captain now – once he returns to Paris. Tonight, he wears a simple cloak and coat. Tonight, he doesn’t look like a musketeer, just a traveler amongst them. 

Porthos doesn’t look at him. 

(He remembers this: of course he remembers the way Porthos looked at him that night following the eclipse. There was desperation there, there was surety and happiness – a triumph. It was so foolish of them. Porthos, his shoulder aching, and Aramis, his head throbbing. But there had been joy, a helpless joy, in the way Porthos pushed him down, in the way Porthos laid out above him, the way he’d smiled into the kiss and whispered _you have no idea how long I’ve—_

And Aramis couldn’t answer around his helpless, pleased laugh, his cries of _me too, God, me too—_

He’d been high on that joy, on that belief – that Porthos was alive, that the queen was alive, that her son was alive, that he was alive—

He hadn’t been able to explain that to Porthos at the time – but no one knew him better than Porthos. He’d seen his happiness, he’d seen laughter in his smiles, the whisper of frantic _need_ between each kiss, banishing away the thoughts of falling backwards out a window. And how desperately Porthos had clung to him, how his teeth dragged across skin, smile against neck, hands upon his hips as they rutted together. It was the first time and yet it felt as if they’d always been like this, as if they knew exactly what each one needed.

And Porthos had looked at him like he was everything, because he was everything. Aramis had let himself believe that.) 

“And anyway,” d’Artagnan says, jarring Aramis from his thoughts. He turns from staring at Porthos to looking at d’Artagnan with a small, helpless smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, that doesn’t touch at anything inside of his heart. This he can do. He’s met with a wide, boyish smile as d’Artagnan says, “You’ll have to be _extra_ nice to me to make up for missing the wedding.”

“I am _always_ nice to you,” Aramis teases, the laughter coming easily, letting out a whine to d’Artagnan’s smug look – harmless teasing, already an old joke after hours of riding. He shouldn’t let himself slip this easily back into it, he should have more restraint – and yet already that is enough to make him feel like it was like before. He says, more truthfully, less teasing, “I’m sorry to have missed it. I’m sure you were both beautiful.” 

And d’Artagnan looks so damn pleased and it stabs like an old wound deep in Aramis’ gut. He should not miss this. He is not worthy of this. 

“Constance was beautiful,” d’Artagnan agrees, and Aramis feels his expression gentle into something sweet with longing – imagining the way they must have looked, imagining what it would have been like to be there with them all. To belong again. 

There is a sudden sound as Porthos stands up across the fire. Aramis’ breath hitches and he looks at him in time to see Porthos look away. Porthos was looking at him and now he – Aramis swallows down thickly as Porthos takes up his sword and tells Athos he’ll go get more water. He leaves and doesn’t look back – but Aramis watches him go, clenches his hands against the log he sits on and imagines going up after him. 

(He remembers this: looking up and saying, “Oh,” in a breathy exhale, a stunned little noise of pleasure. Porthos laughed in response, a low, rumbling thing that stroke down deep into Aramis’ core. He remembers kissing down his back, kissing at the back of that neck – remembers holding to Porthos, whispering out his name as a prayer, as salvation, remembers feeling loose and free and unafraid. He remembers feeling that Porthos would always be there to hold him down.

“Yeah,” had been Porthos’ reply, gentle with a brush of his lips across Aramis’ jaw. A warm thought. A joy. No sharp edges in the corners of his mind. No need to feel anything other than safe, other than wanted, deserving. He’d already been drowsy. He’d smiled, then, and found it strange that he should love this morning light so terribly – so used to no mornings after, slipping away before being caught. 

He remembers this: not having to be afraid to wrap their fingers together, lacing them up, staring up at him as he said, “You are… so important to me, Porthos.”) 

He watches after Porthos until he fades out into the blur of the night. 

 

-

 

At the garrison, d’Artagnan leans down to kiss a reminder to be careful and come back safe from Constance’s lips in front of everyone in the entire courtyard, smiles fondly into it. His entire face dimples and softens around her, and Aramis watches the way Constance lifts her hand to touch his cheek, the way the light glints off her wedding band. 

Aramis remembers how daring he felt, slipping from the doorways of widows’ houses, from the dark corners of men he only half-knew but would eventually come to love like breathing. He remembers how daring he felt with his clothes slightly askew, his hair in noted disarray. The touch of a bruise upon his neck, scratches etched into his skin – marked for carnal pleasures, marked for living and for love. 

Constance laughs, a little breathless, and her expression is sweet and openly affectionate. Aramis turns his face away from the display, tells himself that it is holy enough to feel joy for his friends, but sin to feel jealousy. It is an unfair thought. When he looks away, he sees Porthos watching the married couple in turn, his face soft, hinting at a smile, and it draws Aramis further still into his edge of memory. 

(He remembers this: the way Porthos smiled at him, only at him, the early morning light curling into his hair, his face softened with sleep. Porthos laughed then, fingers tracing over Aramis, touching him just for the sake of touching. He’d looked so young in that moment. Bright and alive and _perfect_.) 

The ride to the south strays too close near Savoy. The closer they get, the tighter Aramis holds to the reins. He breathes in through his nose and sharply from his mouth, but otherwise the strumming in his heart peters out and settles. He can feel Porthos’ eyes on him and that, at least, is a kind of strength he hates to admit to – hates to think that he could revolve so easily back around his brothers, long for them, miss them, think of them. And Porthos – Porthos, who would understand the significance, who would understand the need of it. 

He’s discussing with Athos the pursuits of the monks in Douai, a means to keep his mind of things – of the sight of blood upon snow, of his lost brothers; of the thought of turning around and meeting Porthos’ eyes, reaching to him, drawing him in. Two things that cannot be again. He should not let his mind linger. Instead, he discusses with Athos the virtues of beekeeping and vegetable growing, as if it is something that he could ever find true pleasure in. But there is pleasure in doing God’s work. That, at least, he can focus on. 

“Once the war is over,” Aramis says, with more conviction than he feels, “I will be eager to join them again.” 

He smiles to himself. The joy he felt, finding his purpose – that much, at least, is true. With all his heart, this much is true. He meant it when he said that it was not sacrifice. That it was his wish for this – and the best he could do for himself and those he loves. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Porthos’ shoulders tense. He turns his head away, his jaw clenching. Aramis does not mean to cause him pain. 

(He remembers this: the simple joy of Porthos’ hands on his. He stood naked at the side of his bed, smiling and reaching out his hands to Porthos. Porthos dragged his eyes over him, smiling at him with his own surety. There was nervousness – somehow, only a little, and he felt himself flush. 

Porthos’ hands on him were so gentle, too precious – as if afraid to break, as if afraid to hold. Porthos had always been this way – had always been so sure of his strength, so sure of the world around him. He moved through life as if waiting for the world to break down around him. Porthos’ thumb dragged at the hollow of his hip. The touch was so reverent – innocent, in the grand scheme and yet—

Aramis knew he was shaking. He tried to keep his expression calm, gentled, happy – and Porthos looked up at him and smiled to meet Aramis’ smile. 

“Don’t be gentle,” he told him. Porthos’ hand curled at his hip. 

Before Porthos could speak – before he could let Porthos tell him he was worthwhile, that he was worth this – he leaned in and kissed Porthos.

Later that evening, Aramis would watch Porthos’ face as he pushes against him, expression full of something Aramis didn’t want to identify, didn’t want to understand just yet. He would tell him, then: fuck, you’re gorgeous. Tell him: keep your eyes open. Not quiet words against skin, but spoken aloud, clear – unashamed, unrestrained.) 

Porthos spurns his horse and trots up towards the front of the line, sliding into place beside d’Artagnan’s horse. 

Aramis watches him go. He wishes this could be easier. Simpler. 

 

-

 

Mornings bloom grey-blue, sleet tapping sharply against metal armor. It reflects Aramis’ mood, an anxious creature growing more unsteady in each step. This was meant to be easy. This was meant to be clear. 

It has been long enough now that Aramis finds himself seeking out Porthos whenever he can – like the fool he is, a slow-moving fool who cannot allow things to stand. He is the one to withdraw and yet he follows Porthos as a shadow, the only man who ever showed him true kindness, it seems. 

He knows better than this. They’ve hardly spoken. 

They’ve hardly had the chance to. The din of soldiery clinks around them, the task of living in the midst of war a surety between soldiers. It’s an interesting sight – men milling around for the purpose of attacking Spain, of attacking the queen’s home country. 

He watches Porthos as if he has always been this – because Porthos can find means to live no matter the circumstance, because Porthos lives as well as thrives. It hurts, in a way, to watch how Porthos can live and survive without Aramis – how easily he becomes a soldier of war, not just a musketeer. How he carries himself in confidence. 

He tells himself, not for the first time, that this is what he’s chosen – Porthos should be able to live without him. Porthos should be happy without him. 

And yet Porthos is the man that he—

He is the man whom he—

With all the effort he can summon, he leaves the thought unfinished. It’s enough, but he cannot linger. It was not meant to be like this. He left it all behind and now it can no longer be his own. 

He cannot remember the last time that Porthos smiled in his presence. The last time he heard him laugh. 

That is how Porthos is meant to be – happy, laughter, living—

He steps closer before he quite realizes it, reaches out to touch at Porthos’ elbow, fingers fanning out across the thick leather of his coat beneath his armor. It is the first time he’s touched him. It is the first time that he’s been with just Porthos since returning from the monastery. He wonders if Porthos might notice that, too. 

He holds his breath and waits until Porthos turns to look at him. Suddenly the space he’s sought him in feels too small, with Porthos in it. 

“Your sword,” Aramis says in way of greeting, his voice cotton-thick – not the words he wished to say, nor the words he wishes to say now. “It isn’t the same as before.” 

Porthos looks down, hand straying to the sword at his side, fingers curling around the hilt protectively. Such an action should not be so sensual, and yet Aramis holds his breath watching it. He watches as Porthos puzzles over the sword, or over Aramis’ words, and then draws the sword from its sheath. It catches against the grey light of the day, slim and pristine – old, but cared for. 

Aramis shifts closer, looks down at the inlay of the hilt, the intricate, delicate work of it all. It sits weighted in Porthos’ hands, balanced. It is old, but treasured. 

“The capt – the Minister gave it to me,” Porthos says, voice quiet. “… It was his.” 

Aramis feels the tug of his smile as he looks at the sword – and then his face softens with understanding. He doesn’t say a word – there’s no words he can say that wouldn’t already express what he knows Porthos is thinking. 

Aramis looks up at him. “We… never really talked about it.” 

Porthos sheaths his sword, looking down and away again. His voice is quiet and cautious when he asks, “About?” 

“What happened with your father,” Aramis says, biting at his lip once and looking at Porthos, even and uncertain. 

(He remembers this: walking away – wondering if he was leaving behind more than just a woman he loved and could never have, a son who could never be his; wondering if he was leaving behind someone who stood more than a brother. Walking away and remembering the taste of his kiss, the feeling of being held down, the feel of a smile against the slope of his neck, that suffocating feeling of falling down and down and down – 

Further and further still.) 

He knows he never got the chance to talk to Porthos about it, never had the chance to ask him how he was feeling, how it felt. He remembers the two hour ride back to Paris passing in relative silence, Porthos’ expression soft but thoughtful. Porthos was usually so protective of his past, of the things that left him so exposed and vulnerable. He’d thought to himself that he’d visit him that night, ask him then in the privacy of their affection. The chance never came and the days whirled by in a flash, everything unraveling, everything splintering apart. 

And, in the end, he didn’t deserve Porthos. He didn’t deserve to drag him further and further. He almost lost the queen and the dauphin because of his own stupidity, his own inabilities, his own poison. He couldn’t do that to Porthos, as well. 

But it felt too wrong to leave it unsaid – how long had Porthos held on to his own thoughts, his own feelings on the matter. How long did it take for Porthos to convince himself that it didn’t matter what happened, that he didn’t have to talk about it with anyone, that he didn’t have to bother anyone with it in the grand scheme of Aramis’ decision, d’Artagnan’s wedding, Athos’ appointment, and the war against Spain? He knows Porthos wouldn’t just shout it out. It’s a delicate thing, his past. Change is a delicate thing.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Porthos dismisses, looks down and away. 

“Porthos,” Aramis answers, desperate, his voice weighted down and pitched low. Firm. 

He has never failed to belong like this before. He knows how it is that Porthos felt in the years before he found the musketeers. Aramis has belonged in any place he deemed worth belonging to – could nestle his way into any space. A loner, to be sure, curled into himself – but still, Aramis has never found it difficult to find a means to belong. 

And yet here, and now, he is moving away from memories as if they might burn him if he lingers on them for too long. 

(He remembers this: threading his fingers with Porthos’ –feeling a crippling happiness, pressed down beneath his best friend, pressed down beneath his brother – someone so important, his smile open-mouthed and longing, panting out his name as he curls his leg around Porthos’ hips, trying to tug him in closer.) 

Porthos stares at him for a long moment, cautious and withdrawn. Aramis cannot blame him for the look and yet it splinters up in his heart. He is the one who withdrew, he is the one who left them all behind. They came to get him and he did not fall back into their arms. Even now, the armor he wears feels borrowed and there is no pauldron strapped to his shoulder. Even now, he can see that Porthos is still waiting for him to back up and away, still waiting for Aramis to expose his back to him again – walk away. 

“There’s not really much to talk about,” Porthos finally says and Aramis makes a soft, mournful sound – wishing that Porthos did not have to be quite so stubborn that he did not have to be so—

He can do this, at least. 

He is the one who left. But it does not mean he cannot offer his sympathy, his understand. He might never again be able to stand as a brother to them, to any of them, and yet—

He can offer them this much, a means to find comfort, a means to be alright – without him, if necessary. He can do this much for them. He can provide a service, a solace – even if he cannot be amongst them again, he can do this much. 

But Porthos makes a soft sound and turns his face away, clenching his eyes shut. His jaw quivers against unspoken words.

And then he whispers out, brutal and hurt, “Stop.” 

Aramis opens his mouth as if to speak and then closes it, something betrayed inside of him twisting up – he almost recoils. If Porthos does not need him anymore, if Porthos does not want him—

Shouldn’t that be for the better? 

“I don’t need you to act as…” Porthos begins, grows frustrated, and doesn’t look at him when he shakes his head and continues, “—some act of confession.” 

Aramis holds back the crippled sound he could make to this – clenches his hands together behind his back for a moment, feels the grit of the air in his lungs, so different from Douai. He might return there soon. He may have to. Being here, yet not being here – it cannot be enough. It isn’t enough for Porthos – he can see it in the slant of his eyes, the cusp of his jaw. The way he looks at him as if seeing a ghost, or a monk he does not recognize. But then, shouldn’t that be better, shouldn’t that be—

(He remembers this: clinging to Porthos, demanding and needing –humming out his name and gasping out for breath, the rumble of Porthos’ laughter as if reverberating from his own chest.) 

When was the last time he saw Porthos laugh? Smile? 

Porthos breathes out – looks as if he is aching. Aramis knows he must look the same, that his stomach has dropped away from him, that he has no words – frozen in place from that one _stop._

He will obey him. Once, Porthos was part of the center of his universe. Once, Porthos was everything and anything he could need and want. He would do anything Porthos asked of him. Anything. And yet—

Porthos says, “I thought I was a bastard. An orphan. And then I wasn’t.” 

The words are clipped, quick – meant to mask the deep, dragging sadness that dredges up at the words. That Porthos would say this much to him speaks only to his willingness to trust Aramis – his willingness to reach for him. He could reach for him now. He could touch Porthos – coax him away, coax him into comfort. He could kiss him. He could kiss him long enough until Porthos smiles again, smiles at him—

He is not meant to need this anymore. He is not meant for this anymore. 

“I have my family,” Porthos says, quieter still, and Aramis loses all breath, all words that could be spoken in that moment, silent from the sheer ache of knowing that he cannot be part of that family again, that perhaps already Porthos does not count him amongst it. 

He does not know if the thought is comfort or uneasy. He is not a good person. And because he is not a good person, he remains silent against the brunt of that unhappiness. It jostles against his heart, but there is nothing that he can speak to make this better. 

 

-

 

Things jerk back into place with the simple pull of a trigger. Before this moment, things are clear-coated and straight-forward: he is to be a monk and he will return to service once the war is over, whenever that may be. And then he holds his gun again for the first time, the beautiful inlay of silver vines and leaves curling along the barrel. He loads it up, he fires, and he hits his target, as if second nature, as easy as breathing – and he smirks in his triumph, feeling warm all over. He turns his head a little – catches Porthos looking at him, and he feels his smile turn all the more triumphant, preens beneath the assessing look in Porthos’ gaze. 

The world fades away and hones in only in Porthos – and then Porthos steps closer, raises his sword, blocks a hit that might have clipped Aramis’ shoulder. It catches at Porthos’ arm – not a deep cut, but enough to draw blood. Aramis’ heart presses up into his throat and he can’t stop the mournful sound he makes. He loads up his pistol. He shoots. He kills. Porthos stays near his side, blocking hit after hit. They slide into place, they move off each other as they’ve always done – a unit, a brotherhood. 

After the skirmish, Aramis touches Porthos’ shoulder and asks, “Will you let me stitch that?” 

There are skilled healers and surgeons upon the front lines, and yet this – this is something that Aramis has to do. It feels, suddenly, too important to ignore. This was once second-nature, too – he never had to ask, before. It was just expected that Aramis would stitch up those scars. 

(He remembers this: naked on Porthos’ bed, head bandaged, beautiful and disarrayed in a pleasant kind of soreness from the night before. Turning his head, hair a mess, his smile slow and lazy in the morning sun. Being marked, marked all over like he is Porthos’ – like he belongs to him. 

He touched at each spot, each mark – knew he would remember it every moment. Knew he would think of him throughout the day, thumb pressing to the bruise shaped like Porthos’ fingertips and knowing he belongs. He looked up to Porthos and found Porthos watching him back. He flushed at the time, then grinned – and Porthos looked at him as if the entire world revolved around Aramis’ smile. Perhaps it did, in that moment.) 

Aramis frowns as he stitches the slash across Porthos’ arm, from elbow to wrist. “It’s a miracle you didn’t bleed out.”

Looking at the damage now, it’s clear the wound was deeper and more serious than he might have realized. And it is Aramis’ own doing – that he should _gloat_ and miss something like this. It is a wonder that Porthos still breathes. Every person he’s ever cared about – he’s managed to hurt them all. 

“You know all about miracles,” Porthos sighs out, and though his voice is soft and gentle, the words make Aramis flinch, the needle sharp in his hand. He doesn’t let himself shake. Porthos is silent for a moment and then asks, “You liked it today, didn’t you?”

Of course Porthos would know how to read him. Of course Porthos would know all. He stitches Porthos’ arm back together, and wishes he could sink away from this conversation – wishes he could find means to not admit to this, find means that Porthos might not know him better than he knows even himself. His hands are gentle on Porthos’ arm.

“Perhaps,” he relents, because he knows he cannot lie to Porthos. His smile is pained when he adds, “Fighting is what I was born to do.” 

He thinks of the monks in Douai, that peace and serenity in their eyes in everything they did. Aramis feels too rattled. His heart was settled – he was settled, ready for this change, ready to be a monk and dedicate his life to God. And now, he feels on edge yet again – too distant, and not distant enough. Being away from Porthos, from everyone—

They lapse into a silence – the understanding that it is not forever, that it is only temporary, weighing down on both their minds. 

He doesn’t know why he speaks the words, only knows that they bubble out of him before he can stop it: “You never asked me to stay.” 

He doesn’t lift his eyes. He wraps up Porthos’ arm with fresh bandages, watches the way Porthos’ fingers flex. 

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Porthos answers, his voice quiet and pained against the truth of it. “I’d never ask it of you.”

He thinks of the moments in which he would have asked Porthos to stay – too many to count. Beautiful women. Beautiful adventures. The horrifying knowledge of abandonment when he saw the captain holding Porthos’ pauldron and told them all that he’d left for his father’s manor. He remembers, in startling clarity, every time he would have begged Porthos to stay – had that been necessary. 

“I’d have asked it of you,” Aramis says, ashamed, but his voice cautious. “You returned on your own, but with your father—”

Porthos does not allow him to finish the thought, shaking his head and interrupting, “That’s different. I wouldn’t have been happy.”

“Do you think I’m happy?” Aramis asks. Holds his breath. Waits. 

“I think you’re doing what you need to do. It’s different from what I was going to do,” Porthos says, looks over at where he’s shed his coat, the pauldron still hooked onto the sleeve. 

Aramis’ hands linger on Porthos’ arm. They sit in silence. 

(He remembers this: ducking his head and pressing a kiss to the tendons of Porthos’ wrist. He remembers: the warm flush in his gut at the sound of Porthos’ teasing, rumbling laughter. Aramis grinned up at him, unashamed, and didn’t even bother to protest. Instead, he tugged Porthos down, arranged himself into his lap. He kissed him – again and again, mouth and cheek and jaw, lips dragging over stubble. He remembers: whispering out his name. Whispering out breathless words. Happiness, helpless inside of him. Smiled against skin and scars. 

“Porthos,” he whispered in belonging, breathless and affectionate. He showed Porthos where to lay his hands and begged, “Fuck me. Come on. Fuck me again.” 

This is what he remembers most that morning afterwards: the way Porthos looked at him so openly – unhindered, unguarded, unashamed. He’d looked at Aramis as if there could be nothing else on God’s green earth that he could desire, that he could find happiness with. 

He remembers this: the way Porthos curled him up into his arms, the way he smiled at him, deliriously happy, their kisses bruising against their lips. 

He remembers: being _happy._ ) 

“Are you angry with me?” Aramis asks, in a quiet voice – the question that has nagged at him since the beginning of all of this. Since the moment Porthos’ smile dimmed in Douai and he’d looked away. Since the moment he walked away from the campfire, not looking back. Since the moment Aramis realized it’d been weeks since he last saw Porthos’ smile at him – out on the grassy lawn of his father’s manor, his dimpled, gentled smile as he hummed out _yeah, I know_ to Aramis’ _all for one?_ , because he, too, needed to hear it. They both needed to hear it. 

He fans his fingers out across the bandages on Porthos’ arm. Looks up at him as Porthos sighs out – long and weary and fragile. 

He says, “I can never be angry with you. You know that.”

But Aramis doesn’t. Each glance, each look away – each absence of a smile or a laugh, it only highlights a distance that Aramis himself has created, and now grasps restlessly across the void, searching for Porthos to reach out to him again. 

Maybe, if Porthos had asked him to stay—

It hurts. He shouldn’t think these thoughts and yet it hurts. He can see that hurt reflected back at Porthos. He doesn’t have to say it for Aramis to know how deeply he has hurt him—

And what kind of man is he, if he thinks now he could be worthy? 

“It isn’t the same,” Aramis whispers out, wearied. Because it isn’t. Porthos does not touch him. He does not laugh, he does not smile. He looks at him as if he aches with the waiting, with the longing. He probably does. 

“Won’t it be easier,” Porthos asks, words cautious, “to go back if it’s like this?” 

Aramis swallows down and looks up at him. Their eyes meet. 

 

-

 

Porthos slams a man down into the dirt, slams his skull down upon a rock until it crushes beneath his palm. A senseless sort of violence, hands stained with blood he wipes discreetly off on the grass as if it is nothing. 

“I miss the way you smile,” Aramis says, the words coming to him suddenly, and he is knee-deep in blood and bodies, and he is still fighting because there is nothing else he can do. 

Porthos wipes at his cheek. He looks at Aramis and Aramis looks back – pausing only to shoot a man over Porthos’ shoulder before he can manifest any violence or grudge against Porthos for the brutality they face. He will protect him. In all things. Even himself, if he must. 

“Porthos,” he begins, when Porthos says nothing.

“Leave it,” Porthos cuts in, and he sounds breathless and anxious at once. “Just… leave it.” 

Something staggers in Aramis’ chest – a wheeze and then an ache, a curling of attempts coalescing into a void. Anger. Frustration. He is not worthy of this and yet he still seeks. He studies Porthos’ face – sees the fatigue, sees the longing. Porthos has never been one to hide from his thoughts and his feelings – he has always worn his heart on his sleeve, has never been able to understand those who would hide thoughts away. 

Porthos is so beautiful – even in the midst of violence, of pain, of fear and frustration. He has always been strong. He has always known what he is and who he is. 

This is not the moment Aramis falls in love with Porthos – but, rather, the moment when he can no longer ignore that he is. He has known it for so long. 

He draws in a steady breath and lets himself feel it. 

And then he nods, reloads his gun, and looks away from Porthos. If he could stop thinking, everything would probably be quite a deal more pleasant. 

(He remembers this: Porthos pressing him down onto his back and kissing him, swallowing around his laughter. And God, his laughter was so beautiful, so wonderful, tugging down low into his gut and igniting his heart again. 

Once he knew it, he couldn’t go back.) 

 

-

 

The months drag on and the war goes on and there is no end in sight. 

Aramis opens the tent flap and moves into it. 

“I spoke with Athos,” he says, carefully because he knows that Porthos is awake even if he does not move. Porthos would wake up the moment anyone approached his tent. And then he almost laughs when he corrects himself, “I mean, the Captain.” 

Porthos doesn’t pretend to sleep even if he lies very still, but Aramis knows how Porthos sleeps and knows when he is awake and listening. 

“Right,” Porthos says, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look at Aramis now in the dark. 

Aramis looks away, breathes in, and then thinks better of it and looks back at Porthos. He turns towards him properly, hesitates, and then says, “I’ve decided on something.” 

“Alright,” Porthos says and he’s so patient, so kind. His hands are curling into fists, though, and Aramis can see that even in the darkness. He looks so tired, tired with longing, with waiting, with hoping. 

“I’ve decided to… return to the musketeers. Permanently.” He breathes out, once the words leave him – it didn’t feel real telling Athos. Telling Porthos provides more surety. 

Aramis watches the way Porthos’ shoulders relax, the tension bleeding from him. 

“Come here,” Porthos whispers out, his voice pitched low and thick with _something_ , and Aramis can’t breathe, doesn’t want to breathe. He goes to him, his face rippling and cracking into a hesitant smile – reconnecting again, breathing life into tired bones as he folds himself into Porthos’ arms. 

He slips into the cot with Porthos. It is uncomfortable at first, as neither of them are small, but he curls into Porthos, breathes him in, lets himself feel it all. His breath is a trembling thing, bird-fragile against his lungs, and his hands touch Porthos’ chest. He is restless. 

Porthos’ breaths are steady and Aramis fans his fingers out over his chest, touches at scars he knows so well, loves so deeply. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, swallows once, licks his lips. He’s so nervous – so uncertain if he should say it, if it should be welcome, if it is alright –

If he can be worthy of this—

 _I love you,_ he thinks and does not say, the force of the words pressing to the back of his throat. He breathes out and tries to swallow them down. _I love you, I love you._

“I wouldn’t ask you to stay,” Porthos admits, and Aramis curls his arms around his neck and holds a little tighter to him – afraid that Porthos will send him away, that his heart cannot speak the words he wishes to. _I love you,_ he thinks as Porthos chokes out, “But… I’ve missed you.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Aramis gasps out and it comes out as a dry sob, weighted down with his sadness, with his longing. He shouldn’t be so relieved, so surprised to hear the words – and yet he’d wondered, and yet he’d feared. 

_Please,_ he thinks, desperate in the thought – _please do not let it be that I’m making a mistake._ He could handle any manner of things, but losing Porthos is not one of them. 

(He remembers this: the moment he knew he would do everything that Porthos would ask of him – remembers wanting to beg, wanting to plead, wanting to be worthy of this man. Remembers being held down, rocked into, caught into kisses again and again, so that he could only think and feel Porthos even hours later.) 

“It’s alright,” Porthos whispers as he let himself give in, press down to Aramis. Desperately he adds, “Just kiss me.” 

Aramis wonders if Porthos can hear the sound of his heart, hammering hard in his chest, if he could taste the cusp of Aramis’ confession when he cups his face and kisses him – slow and tender, breathing out a shuddering gasp of startling relief. 

He does not know if he can deserve this, he does not know if he can be worthy— 

But in this dark room, he is too in love to care, in too much need of reassurance of belonging in that heart. And so he lets himself come apart easily and entirely, folding into Porthos, kisses him again and again. He does not know if he can be worthy—

But he will spend the rest of his life on this earth attempting to be so. That, for the moment, is nearly enough. 

He whispers out Porthos’ name – his salvation, his prayer. Everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason!


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